The Game Has Changed
by ScribeOfRED
Summary: I watch with faint amusement as my creator struggles pathetically on the ground, squirming backward as quickly as he possibly can. Fear fills his eyes as I slowly stalk closer to him. *No Pairings*


**A/N: Welcome. This is my first fanfic I've published on this site, but I've been writing fanfiction for three or four years.**

**I know there are Tron stories that already have this name, but as it's the best song on the soundtrack, I couldn't help but use it again. If you see any mistakes or inconsistencies, please don't hesitate to tell me. If you enjoy it, do leave a review. Thanks!**

**EDIT: I'm reuploading due to some errors I noticed. Also, I'd like to thank PSPGamerGirl for betaing for me.**

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><p>Over the many cycles I have known Kevin Flynn, I have come to realize he is many things.<p>

To most Programs, he's a User. And not just any User, but the User. He is the creator of our entire system, and to their everlasting gratitude, he is their creator. These Programs treat him with the utmost respect, and, from my observations, a small measure of fear. They don't question him - after all, how could a User ever be wrong? - blindly following along with whatever new idea he enters the Grid with.

To others, he is what I can best describe as a father figure. As far as I know, it is mostly ISOs that see him this way, but at one point - and it angers me to admit this - I looked up to him in the same way for many, many cycles.

That was before the ISOs - those useless, disgusting viruses - arrived, sweeping through our system like a swift ocean tide. One that was completely unexpected. Their appearance, and Flynn's subsequent reaction to them, made me realize just how flawed my friend is.

My friend. Only a select few Programs can say that about Flynn and actually mean it. Tron is among them, and I suppose the ISO leaders would also classify as such. I still don't understand how Flynn can be friends with them. They are vile, repulsive creatures, appearing out of seemingly nowhere, drifting aimlessly about the Grid with no set function to perform, and without a set function, they cannot be ruled, cannot be drawn in and assimilated to further enhance this system. They will never achieve the perfection we must obtain.

Flynn doesn't see it. For the creator of an entire system of living Programs, he is more blind than I ever thought possible. To his obviously flawed thinking, the ISOs are "the miracle": Programs that spring into existence without a single command from him. I cannot recall ever seeing him more excited than the first time we met the ISOs. Since they first appeared some five cycles ago, he has spent all of his time working with them, developing their skills, creating for them an entire city, even just sitting and talking to them. Time he could have spent - should have spent - helping me, his own likeness and one of the first Programs in this system, achieve our mutual goal of perfection. I resent him for ignoring me, the only Program who truly understands him and his goal. Or what I thought was his goal. It appears his initiative has changed.

Which is why I now stand in a temporarily deserted sector of Tron City, staring intently at the building across the street. Waiting. Waiting for my friend to round its corner. His most recent meeting with the ISO leaders ended a short while ago, and he should appear any micro now.

My eyes sweep across the nearby buildings, searching out where each of the four Black Guards I brought with me are concealed, reassuring myself that not even a reflection of the carefully repurposed Programs' flaming orange circuitry is visible. I've spent far too many cycles planning this for one careless Program to mess it up.

Tron usually escorts Flynn to the solar sailer, the User's preferred method of reaching the portal, and as the head System Monitor, Tron's ability to sense disturbances is considerably more advanced than the average Program. My Guards, this particular group of which are former System Monitors themselves, will be less noticeable to Flynn and whoever is with him than four Basics. The User must not know what's coming until it's too late.

Normally I wouldn't trust other Programs to participate in a matter as important as apprehending the creator of the Grid, but I can't handle capturing Flynn and effectively subduing his escort at the same time, and, now that these Programs have been repurposed to follow any command I may give, I know I can trust them with my very life.

My attention refocuses as Flynn and Tron - hollow satisfaction fills me to know that I am right yet again - finally appear, their pale blue circuitry the same color as the soft light illuminating the intersecting roads.

I take a deep breath. I do not require oxygen to function, but it's a User trait I have adapted from Flynn. I can imagine Tron snickering and pointing out that it's one of many traits I've copied.

They come closer and I cannot stop my brows from drawing together in concentration as I catch the tail end of a conversation I have heard countless times before.

"Your transport to the portal is waiting for you," Tron says, his gentle voice barely reaching me from across the vacant street. "I don't like it when you cut it this close."

"Will you stop worrying, Tron?" Flynn replies, somewhat impatiently. "Everything's just fine."

My hands curl into fight fists, and I sneer at the irony of Flynn's statement. His is supposed to be the all-knowing creator, with powers far beyond any of our own, yet he's remained oblivious to everything that has happened - Programs disappearing, the formation of my Black Guard, the blatant imperfections of the ISOs, my own betrayal - for many cycles now.

No, not betrayal, I remind myself. By allowing the ISOs to remain in our - my - system, Flynn has betrayed me first. He created me with the sole task of purging the system of its imperfections. I have embraced that task without question or complaint, cleansing the Grid of all I see unfit to remain and then sculpting what is left as near perfection as I possibly can. But the ISOs . . . they are an unforgivable imperfection, tainting every single bit or byte they touch

To be honest, the ISOs would not bother me, or even have come to my full attention, if it weren't due to their lack of specific function. Due to their aimlessness, we are being dragged backward, slipping infuriatingly further from perfection with every passing cycle.

Flynn and Tron are directly across from me. The pixels that make up my face rearrange themselves until not one emotion is visible.

It's time.

"Flynn!" I yell, stepping closer to the pair.

The called-on User turns to me, his mouth still open from whatever he was just saying. His eyes slip from mine, tracing the fiery yellow circuitry of my new attire: a formfitting lightsuit that feels very different than the brown jacket I've worn since he first created me. Somehow, this feels more . . . right than his outfit ever did. He meets my gaze again, his confusion clearly visible.

I stop a measured distance away. My hands hang loosely at my sides. Any sign of aggression and Tron will surely act to protect the User. "Am I still to create the perfect system?" I know the answer already, but I must ensure that Flynn's loyalties haven't switched yet again. One never can predict what Users might do.

Flynn doesn't say anything for several micros. Trying to come up with yet another lie that will sound nice and keep me in my inferior place until the next time I question him, no doubt.

My lips want to curl downward with disgust, and I have to forcefully quarantine the emotion before it can betray my intentions.

When Flynn does speak, his voice is weak, entirely uncertain. "Yeah."

My expression doesn't waver, even though conflicting surges of relief, anger and resolve sweep through my entire system, all the way down to my most basic coding. I am right. Although Flynn rambles on about perfection, he no longer believes in it. Those despicable viruses have completely altered his thinking. He no longer believes in the very cause he created me to help him attain. I am of no further use to him.

And he is of no further use to me.

Even though I already know this, his blatant rejection of me hits me like an identity disc to the stomach. One of us must cease to function. And Flynn must be the one to sacrifice himself. The Grid will never achieve perfection if he's allowed to continue on in his misguided ways.

The first time the thought of destroying Flynn came to me, glaring red errors cropped up in my coding, intense to the point that my very circuits flashed with red rebellion. I was not designed to betray the User who brought me into being. The very notion goes against every written line of coding that makes up my existence. How will the system survive without a User? I asked myself.

The answer is painfully simple. With me as its leader.

I am exactly what the Grid needs: a Program focused on attaining perfection, one that will not hesitate to do what is necessary to achieve it.

No longer does the idea of betrayal send my processor into disarray. I exist solely to usher in perfection. Destroying Flynn is merely one step I must take to reach that goal.

As Flynn's simple but condemning response resonates in the air, an impenetrable wall drops down between us. Silently vowing never to follow in Flynn's footsteps, I step back, a sleek black helmet rezzing from my collar to shield my face - my signal to the Black Guards to reveal themselves. They emerge from the shadows, identity discs already in hand, closing in on their still-oblivious prey with efficient, lethal movements.

Tron, predictably, puts the pieces together first. He orders Flynn away and removes his identity disc, even as the Black Guards surround them. He engages the first Guard, but I have no interest in watching the outcome. Flynn is running, and he's running directly toward me.

One brow raises beneath my helmet. Does Flynn mean to challenge me, or is he merely attempting to escape?

It doesn't matter. The nano Flynn is within range, I snatch him about the throat, fingers digging into his soft flesh with more force than necessary. "You've been corrupted," I state before throwing him down, away from the fight raging at my back. The sounds of clashing discs and bits of data scattering across the glossy surface of the road reach my audio processors, but they hardly register - they are mere background noises; every bit of my attention is on Flynn. I watch with faint amusement as my creator struggles pathetically on the ground, squirming backward as quickly as he possibly can. Fear fills his eyes as I slowly stalk closer to him. I relish that fear, savoring its tangy presence in my circuits. For the first time ever, a Program has overcome his User.

Although every line of coding in my body itches to grasp my identity disc, to slash it across Flynn's throat in a neat line, to eliminate the traitor once and for all, I know that impulse will only lead to ruin. I need his disc, the master key to the Grid, to remain active so I can move without restraint around this system, and eventually, into the User world, but if I derezz him now, all the data it contains will vanish, never to be recovered. I must secure his disc and transfer the data before I derezz him.

My processor is so wrapped up in my quickly forming plans that I neglect to realize what the sound of light footfalls behind me might mean until arms wrap abruptly around my torso and I am flung to the ground, my helmet-protected head almost smashing against Flynn's knee as I go down.

I twist sideways at the last micro, bracing myself on my right arm. Two discs spin dangerously close to my chest, their low, threatening hums resonating with my own circuitry. I roll onto my back, hoping to pin Tron - it could be no one but him - beneath me, but he's too fast, already up to his knees. We grapple, my hand finding his shoulder as he punches me with all the strength he can muster, but the blows glance off my helmet and do not harm me.

"Flynn, go!" he cries - he knows a losing battle when he's in one - struggling to pin me down, but he is by far the smaller Program, and I toss him off me with ease. We rise at the same time, but I catch him by the arm before he can attack again, ripping one disc from his hand and throwing him onto his back in the same, graceful motion.

My body thrums, circuits glowing brighter than normal due to the unusually high amounts of energy flooding my systems. Tron, the best fighting Program on the Grid and my friend of countless cycles, is lying completely vulnerable at my feet. Intense satisfaction tears through me as I lift my twice stolen disc high and bring it down across Tron's face, drawing forth a cry of pain that abruptly breaks off.

Certain that Tron is no longer a threat, I immediately look to the surrounding buildings. Flynn is nowhere to be seen.

Satisfaction gives way to blazing anger, so hot it almost burns a hole in my CPU. Flynn has escaped, taking the key to both his system and the User world with him.

But not to the portal; this I am certain. Even though I wasn't expecting Flynn to escape, I have a backup plan already in motion. More of my Guards are stationed along every route Flynn might possibly take to reach the portal. Even with his User powers, Flynn is a programmer, not a warrior like Tron. He does not have the experience to defeat my repurposed Programs. They will ensure he does not escape the Grid.

My gaze returns to Tron. He isn't derezzing, but his lightsuit has fully extinguished, any remaining energy he might have focused on keeping his CPU running in stand-by mode. His youthful face is perfect no longer: a deep slash cuts across his entire face, completely destroying his left eye and partially damaging the other. The pixels around the wound are dark, their energy flow cut off even before he had a chance to shut down.

The disc I hold in my right hand continues to spin, its low whir calling for me to finish the helpless Program before he revives. He is too dangerous to keep online, and yet, as I stare at Tron - the blindly loyal Program to the end; what an admirable trait - a new option presents itself. What if I were to repurpose him?

With the toe of my boot, I nudge Tron's disc away from his limp hand. My features rearrange themselves into a thoughtful frown as I crouch with the intention of retrieving his disc. Instead, I find myself lightly tracing the normally glowing blue squares on his chest, contemplating how they would look in red. An image of a mostly black clad figure with the distinctive dotted T cutting a swatch through a sea of terrified ISOs fills my processor. I like the image.

But will repurposing even work on Tron? His security clearance is equal to mine, which will make it difficult to install firewalls that he won't be able to bypass. Then again, I am the same as Flynn - and yet so, so different - and he's an master programmer, while Tron is nothing more than a System Monitor. Any coding problems that arise when Flynn is in his own world are always sent in my direction, never Tron's.

A low hum become audible. I glance up sharply upon recognizing the sound as lightcycle motors, thoughts of Tron temporarily shoved into a back corner of my CPU.

When it becomes apparent that the lightcycles - two, unless I am completely mistaken - are approaching this sector, I snatch Tron's discarded disc and rise to my full height. Flynn wouldn't dare return here, and I doubt he could have found any Programs willing to destroy me, not in the few short micros since he vanished, but he may have created some to help him. I quickly cancel the thought. That isn't possible; I am highly attuned to the Grid and would have sensed the redirection of power it takes for him to accomplish such a feat.

The sound of the lightcycles change pitch as they near my position, the hum crescendoing into a more distinct throb that makes my very pixels vibrate with each pulse of energy the engines release.

My fingers ease toward the activation buttons on the twin discs I now hold. No Programs besides my own Guard should have access to this sector, but Flynn, aided by his mighty User powers, can change the game any time he chooses. What I wouldn't give for the power he wields.

As I watch and wait, each muscle tight with anticipation, two lightcycles swing into view, more than a few blocks away from me. Even from the distance stretching between us, their red circuitry, contrasting sharply with the gentle blue lighting that encompasses nearly all of Tron City, clearly states which side they're on.

Or does it? I slide the extra disc over top of my own, still safely in its dock, staring at the approaching lightcycles. Tron's disc remains firmly in my hand. For all I know, Flynn has altered two Programs to appear as my own, and they've been sent to eliminate me. How very like Flynn to try such a thing. He's too much of a coward to stand face to face with me.

The lightcycles pull up to the glowing strips of light that mark out the crosswalk, where they stop. The Programs collapse their lightcycles back into batons, then approach me, their steps measured and perfectly matched. Exactly as I programmed them to be.

They halt a respectful distance away, hands automatically clasping behind their backs. I make a note to change their resting position; being unable to see their hands does not sit well with me. Although their helmets are up, I know they are eying the Program sprawled at my feet with interest.

"Why are you here?"

Both Programs flinch at my harsh tone. The one on the left recovers first, his back straightening, at the same time dipping his head in a subservient manner. "My lord, one of the four Guards you selected to accompany you sent out a distress signal. We were sent to investigate. What happened, sir?"

"It is not your place to ask questions, only to follow orders," I snap, in no mood to explain that Flynn got away.

The Guard mutters an apology, which I ignore. My eyes return to the lifeless cluster of pixels that is Tron. I really should derezz him - derezz him now, before he creates any more complications. The challenge of trying to repurpose such a loyal Program will likely be the most difficult feat I've ever attempted. Definitely harder than bringing perfection to the Grid. Tron's primary programming is to fight for the Users, exactly the opposite of what I will require of him. But if I succeed, he will be a tremendous asset, ruthlessly eliminating any imperfections I order him to, no matter who or what they are.

But first to deal with the small matter of Flynn.

I turn to one of the Guards, who are waiting patiently for me to command them. "The User, Kevin Flynn, has betrayed us. Begin a Grid-wide search for him, but do not harm him. I need him fully intact. Go."

The Program nods, spins on his heel, and takes off running. A single, graceful jump later, he is racing away from us at top speed.

"Sir, what can I do, sir?" the second Guard asks.

"I have two jobs for you: First, inform the ISO leaders, through an indirect Basic, that I wish to speak to all the ISOs in half a millicycle. Tell them to gather in Arjia City. After that, prepare every Black Guard that isn't chasing down Flynn with a lightjet and wait for my signal."

"To destroy the ISOs, sir?"

Under my helmet, my teeth bare in a feral smile at hearing those words, but I merely nod at the Guard. "Yes. Now go."

One sharp nod later, the Guard is gone. Alone again, I run a quick diagnostic on Tron and discover that he is losing energy at an alarming rate. I exhale heavily, reaching for the small vial of pure energy I keep for emergencies, then kneel beside Tron, tilting the broken Program's head so I can pour a small amount of the silvery blue liquid into his mouth, stroking his throat to ensure it reaches his core. Instantly, his circuits flicker weakly before returning to their darkened state, but I relax, satisfied that he is no longer in danger of derezzing.

After returning the vial to my side, I stand, eyes roaming over the polished surfaces of the nearby buildings. From here, I can almost see the grand structure Flynn calls a theater. It's where he meets the ISO leaders when he doesn't feel like traveling to Arjia City. My circuits burn, and I want to do nothing more than march over to that building and personally derezz every single ISO currently housed inside. I repress the thought. Their time is almost at an end. Any rash moves on my part will certainly send the ISOs scurrying for cover, and I refuse to jeopardize my prime directive just to appease my sudden lust for violence.

Once more, I picture a Grid without the ISOs. It is glorious. Programs, loyal to me alone, populate a flawless system, working together in wonderful unity to maintain perfection. I save that image, silently vowing not to rest until I've seen it come to pass. In a few short millicycles, Flynn's miracle will be nothing more than scattered, useless bits of code, each slowly being absorbed back into the Grid itself. They will be much more useful in powering our system. It's the only way they'll ever be useful.

I imagine the pain I will cause Flynn with the destruction of the ISOs. He must not be derezzed until after every single ISO has been properly dealt with. It is only fair to make him watch the demise of what caused him to stray from our objective in the first place. I will return one betrayal for another.

I do not attempt to stop the chuckle that forms deep in my throat. "The game has changed, Flynn," I whisper, glancing up into the darkened sky. "And you are helpless to stop it."


End file.
